


I Can't Stop Remembering

by bonafide_asian_nerd



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt Number Five | The Boy, Hurt/Comfort, Number Five | The Boy Needs A Hug, Number Five | The Boy has PTSD, Number Five | The Boy-centric, Self-Harm, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26167183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonafide_asian_nerd/pseuds/bonafide_asian_nerd
Summary: Five had been through his fair share of shit. Coping with said shit had always been quite the struggle.TW: Self-Harm
Comments: 4
Kudos: 143





	I Can't Stop Remembering

**Author's Note:**

> It has been such a long time since I've written, but boy oh boy, I just started and finished the Umbrella Academy and I'm in love. This show is amazing, and it has possessed my entire being. For some context, this story takes place post-season 2, but we're just gonna pretend like the Sparrow Academy isn't a thing, and everything went back to normal, because I am not creative enough to come up with a plot line for that. Anyways, with that in mind, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Trigger Warning: Self-Harm

Of all the things Five could say he was good at, coping was not one of them. At fifty-eight years of age Five had experienced his fair share of shit, and suffice to say, it had taken its toll on him.

It had been around 2 months since they had saved the world from the (second) apocalypse. A large majority of those 2 months had been spent recovering from the injuries that came with experiencing two apocalypses within the span of 14 days. Five was not normally one to complain, but he had to admit, getting a ton of bricks dropped on you hurt like a bitch, especially when you’re stuck in the body of a prepubescent 13-year old boy. 

But after a grueling, and in his opinion, far too long period of time, the nightmare was finally over, and he could escape both the infirmary and the clutches of his over-worried siblings and get a damn cup of coffee. He’d deserved it. Having patience while concussed was a feat, especially for him, and he had resolved to stop by Griddy’s Donuts to buy himself a congratulatory cup of coffee.

The diner was relatively empty, save a couple sitting in the far corner of the room. He sat on a barstool, and ordered himself a cup of coffee (black, of course). Thankful that the waitress didn’t comment on his choice of drink, or lack of a parental figure, he waited for his order, looking around the diner. The quiet was nice, giving him a chance to think, a luxury that the Hargreeves’ house simply did not provide. His eyes closed as he soaked up the silence.

This peace, however, was short lived, as his mind was suddenly filled with haunting images. Images of his siblings shot dead in the barn. Bodies lying on the ground, void of life. He couldn’t save them. Then came images of the first apocalypse. Dust and ash polluting the air. His siblings sprawled under giant pieces of rubble. He felt helpless. It was his fault. It was all his fault. He couldn’t save them. He couldn’t do anything.

Five struggled to breathe. He was alone, so alone. It wasn’t fair. Why was he always the one who had to survive? He didn’t deserve to live. 

He was pulled out of his thoughts as the waitress placed his coffee in front of him. She stared at him, concerned, as he forced himself to take slow, shaky breaths. How pathetic. He took a sip of his coffee, but the liquid only made him queasy. He forced himself up, and hurried over towards the restroom.

Inside the comfort of the bathroom stall, Five slid down the wall into a sitting position. His arms wrapped around his knees, as he attempted to push those horrible images out of his mind. It had been such a long time since he’d had one of these episodes. Hell, he was pretty sure the last time something like this happened, he was still working for the Commission. To be fair, the past 2 months he had been pumped with painkillers, so his mind wasn’t exactly at its best, but still, it had been a while.

God he just wanted it all to stop. All of this pain, and regret, and fear. He just wanted it to stop. He needed it to stop.

Releasing his legs from the tight hold his arms had squeezed them into, Five reached into his blazer pocket, and pulled out a switchblade. It was one of the few possessions he’d had since the apocalypse, and something that he always had on him. God only knows how helpful it had been in the face of any surprise attacks. 

But that’s not the only thing he’d used it for, and that sure wasn’t the reason he was taking it out right now. 

His process was practiced and methodical, decades of repetition had made it seem like a second nature. Rolling up the right sleeve of his blazer, Five readied his knife. It was a little jarring to see the absence of scars on his new (old?) body, but he pushed that thought aside. Hesitation took hold, for a split second, as he thought about what his siblings would say, but it was quickly overtaken by his desperation to make his hurt go away. Taking a deep breath, he began, pushing the knife against his wrist in a horizontal motion.

He sighed in relief, repeating the process until there were around 15 horizontal cuts in a neat column down his wrist. The cuts weren’t terribly deep, but still far down enough to discharge a good amount of blood. Wrapping his wrist with toilet paper, Five let the pain wash over him.

It was a comforting throb, pushing away every bad thought that had consumed him some 10 minutes ago. He smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile, rather expressing more of a dejected emotion. He hated doing it. He knew it was stupid. Cowardly. Weak. But it was a learned solution he had developed. And it was so much easier than facing his pain. As strong as he was, he couldn’t handle everything, especially emotions, especially fear.

He rolled down his sleeve, opened the stall door, and walked back out into the diner. He felt drained, and wanted nothing more than to go to his room and sleep. He paid for his coffee, not bothering to finish it, then left, with the pain in his right wrist continuing to throb all the way back to the academy.

**Author's Note:**

> I am a tad rusty on the writing front, and I'm sure there are a vast array of spelling and grammar mistakes, but I hope they weren't too noticeable. School's been an absolute mess, but I'm hoping to update in the near future. Thanks for reading!


End file.
